


pack up the moon (dismantle the sun)

by ThatGirlTheyKnow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Angst, Depression, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatGirlTheyKnow/pseuds/ThatGirlTheyKnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She pretends to be someone else, and pretends not to hear the sympathetic coos about Stiles Stilinski, Beacon Hills’ youngest widow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pack up the moon (dismantle the sun)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this hasn't been beta read. I've gone over it a few times, and I'm probably going to re-write it, but for now, I need to get it out of my system. So here you go.
> 
> This is my first Teen Wolf fanfiction (over than my Christmas fic, which I don't count).
> 
> I don't own anything. The title comes from the poem "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone" by W.H. Auden, which is below.
> 
> Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,  
> Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,  
> Silence the pianos and with muffled drum  
> Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 
> 
> Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead  
> Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,  
> Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,  
> Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 
> 
> He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
> My working week and my Sunday rest,  
> My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
> I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
> 
> The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  
> Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  
> Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.  
> For nothing now can ever come to any good.
> 
> So. Have fun.

Going into town is an ordeal. On the few occasions she goes, Stiles makes sure it’s quick, painless. She wears a hat or hoodie and pretends people don’t recognise her, pretends to be someone else, someone anonymous. Going into town makes her resent small towns, and her father’s prominent position. Stiles would do anything, anything at all, to be able to escape the looks she gets, the overwhelming pity that makes her want to vomit. The old ladies resting a hand on hers with kind eyes, even the fucking teenagers that fall silent when she walks past.

There’s nothing to stop it though, so she pretends to be someone else, and pretends not to hear the sympathetic coos about Stiles Stilinski, Beacon Hills’ youngest widow.

-

She never did end up going to college. There was too much to do, with the Pack and protecting the town. Besides, she couldn’t think of just one thing she wanted to do. Stiles placated her dad, told him she’d go when the territory was a bit more stable, and got a job at the local library that involved telling off people who spoke too loudly and little else.

It was a good job, an easy job, and she liked it, being surrounded by information all day long. Her supervisors were old people who sat in the back room drinking tea all day, so if one of the Pack were to wander in, have a chat, ask for advice, Stiles could easily take an impromptu break.

That’s how it all started, really. He came in, stood silently in front of her until she noticed him. He went for the intimidating thing but it didn’t work, hadn’t worked since she was seventeen, so Stiles just threw him a cocky grin and said, “What can I do for you?”

-

In the five months since the accident, everyone has given her space, given her time. Nobody has pressured her to get out, not when all she wants to do was sit in her apartment – _their_ apartment – and watch TV shows, watch movies, stare endlessly at blank walls.

The only one who comes regularly, who is close enough to her to not feel like an intruder in her grief, is Scott. He comes in twice a week at least, brings her food, brings her news. Makes sure she eats. He talks a lot, and in the heavy silences that fall when he’s exhausted his one-sided conversational topics, they both think about how it used to be Stiles who could talk for hours without stopping.

Scott’s not nearly that good, but he tries his hardest, and the love and warmth he brings into her cold, cold home brings tears to her eyes. Sometimes, when it just gets too much, he holds her while the tears run, while they both remember.

-

That first workplace visit, Derek needed some help with research. That was also the case the second and third times that week. The fourth time, he looked like he was about to say research, but Stiles cut in, because she _knew_ people, she was _clever_ , and there was no way Derek was going out of his way almost every day for something he could ask by text.

“Let’s go out for coffee,” she said. “My treat.”

Derek’s face morphed into one of those small, barely-there, yet completely genuine smiles, and Stiles was filled with a sense of accomplishment. When his back was turned, she fist pumped.

-

Stiles stares at herself naked in the mirror. She is thin, thinner than she’s ever been. Her ribs are showing, and her normally pale skin is more sickly than anything. Slowly, she touches her body. Her neck, her collarbone, breasts, waist. She examines every inch of herself, hand slipping between her thighs, bending over to run a hand over her legs.

This is her. This is Stiles. This is the same body that he had touched, and worshipped, and held. Stiles thinks about the places he loved to kiss, the places he loved to leave marks. This is the same body he had thrown against walls in anger, that he’d carried out of fights like some god-damned damsel in distress, that he’d claimed as his own.

Stiles goes to bed that night wearing nothing but one of his shirts, too-big on her small frame. She cries until she sleeps, then wakes herself up hours later, screaming for him, but knowing that he won’t come to her.

That he can’t come to her, ever again.

-

It started off as a friendship. They had coffee a few times. She invited him over to watch movies. It was simple, and pleasant.

Then a witch happened, and targeted Stiles. When the fight was over, when Stiles was battered and bruised and probably bleeding from somewhere, and Derek was helping her into her Jeep, she stopped him, took a deep breath, fought down all of her insecurities, and pushed him up against the car.

She stood there, her hands fisted in his shirt, their faces so close that their breath mingled and they had no choice but to stare each other in the eyes. She was tired – _completely exhausted_ – but she needed to do this. Needed to get this point across. 

It took all of her remaining energy to lean forward, press her lips against his _hard_ , pull their bodies together. She didn’t want to ever, _ever_ let go.

-

“Stiles,” the Sherriff says, tired, when they have their bi-monthly family dinner at his place. “You can’t keep acting like this.”

Stiles puts down her fork and looks at her father blankly. “What?”

“Look at you, Stiles. You’re not doing anything. You’re going to work, going home, that’s it. The only reason you’re here tonight is because I reminded you this morning. Do you know what day it is?”

She blinks. It might be a Thursday. Maybe a Wednesday. “ _Dad_ ,” she says instead of answering. “I...”

The Sherriff sighs. “I know. I _know_ , I get it, of course I get it. I just don’t want you to... wither away. I don’t want this grief to become your whole life. You’re so young, sweetheart. He wouldn’t want this for you.”

Stiles stands up abruptly, before she can even think about what she’s doing. She has her bag in hand and in standing in the front doorway, shaking.

_He wouldn’t want this for you._

“Who cares what he would want,” she calls back to her father. “He’s dead. He doesn’t want anything anymore.”

-

They didn’t tell the Pack, not right away. For a couple of months, their relationship was purely sneaking around, making out in her bedroom when Derek snuck through her window, sitting possibly too close during Pack meetings, hands intertwined under the table.

It was amazing, really, how little things changed. They still fought, they still snapped at each other, they still disagreed on an almost daily basis. It’s just that all their interactions became fuelled with a hidden need to _be_ with the other person. To touch, to feel.

There was never any sort of announcement. One day, on her way out of a meeting, Stiles went up to Derek and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Nobody talked about it.

Nobody was surprised.

-

_Who cares what he would want?_

Stiles sits in her apartment, in the dark, breathing heavily. She might be having a panic attack. She’s not quite sure. The world around her seems distant.

_He is dead._

_He is gone._

She finds herself in her bathroom, elbows in the sink, staring herself in the eyes. Her hands are fisted in her shoulder-length hair.

_He left me here._

She had once asked him if he liked her hair long or short. He’d said, “I don’t mind,” but she knew that he liked to have something to hold, something to pull on.

_He doesn’t get a say anymore._

Stiles gets out a pair of scissors. Hacks at her hair, watches the strands fall to the ground. They’re almost black, contrasting with the while tiles.

When she’s done, she shaves it all off, and is left with a white head and hair all over her, down her shirt, in her mouth.

She showers until it’s all gone, and lets the water hit her directly in the face so she can’t tell if she’s crying or not.

-

Stiles had never been one of the those girls who had their wedding planned from the age of ten. Derek had never been one of those people who thought he’d ever get married (at least, he hadn’t been since the fire.)

But two years into their relationship, Stiles was just twenty-two, and she couldn’t think about being with anyone else, ever. She _loved_ Derek, pure and simple. She didn’t always like him. Sometimes, she thought she might hate him. But her soul told her he’s the one, and she may not have been a werewolf, but she was still a creature of instinct.

She said to Derek one night, “We should totally get married,” and her voice was quiet. She thought about all of Derek’s emotional problems, all of his trust issues. A part of her waited for rejection.

But then he said, “Okay,” and they made love on the couch of the apartment they’d moved into only a month ago. “Of course,” he said into her mouth, then her neck. He whispered “Yes,” to her over and over. When they were spent, exhausted, Derek got up and returned with a box.

“Really?” Stiles asked, and laughed as the ring slid onto her finger.

-

Their wedding photo hangs in the living room. It isn’t a formal portrait, but it does show the two of them, side by side, Stiles smirking up at him with a mischievous look in her eyes, having just said something sarcastic, and him looking down, eyebrow raised, amused and exasperated. She used to like to joke that it captured the first of many times he questioned the decision to marry her.

When Allison and Lydia come one day, Stiles goes to get them drinks, and hears their conversation.

“I get why she did it. I mean, the hair thing.”

“Hmmm. She might actually be starting to. _Well_. Not move on, of course. But heal. It can’t be easy. Just look at that picture. It’s obvious they were _completely_ in love.”

She is filled with resentment that anyone could have an insight into their marriage, which was theirs and theirs alone.

As soon as the girls are gone, she moves it into the bedroom.

-

Stiles had been married to Derek for just under a year when a rival pack had made a move on their territory.

They had numbers, but weren’t as stable as the Hale Pack, so in the inevitable fight, Stiles wasn’t worried. She knew they were going to win.

It was a lucky blow from the alpha that sliced Derek’s throat open.

Stiles, armed with a gun full of wolfsbane bullets, hadn’t even fully processed what she saw when she blew the alpha’s brains out. She ran to Derek’s side, pressed her hands to his neck, felt the blood flow out.

 His power as an alpha kept him alive only a few moments. His eyes met hers, dazed. His hand twitched, and she grabbed it.

 “ _Derek_ , no. Shit, _no_ , this isn’t what’s happening, okay? You’re not going to die. Fuck. I love you, Derek, I love you. _Please don’t do this_. _Please_. Hang in there. _I love you_.” She leaned down, pressed their lips together frantically, and when she sat up, mouth covered in blood, he was unmoving in her hands, eyes open and unseeing.

A noise, primal and agonised, had ripped its way out of her throat.

She didn’t notice when the other pack retreated, unsure what to do now they didn’t have any sort of leadership.

She didn’t notice when she and Derek were joined by the others, who howled and howled the loss of their alpha, their leader, their friend.

Stiles didn’t notice anything, for a very long time, that wasn’t Derek’s body in her arms and her tears falling to mix with his blood.

-

“How are you, Stiles?” Debra, her boss, asks one day when Stiles’s hair is half an inch long and she can smile without looking like she’s about to burst into tears.

Stiles shrugs. “I’m okay,” she says. “I’m fine.”

Debra smiles and walks away.

Stiles watches her go.

She thinks that if other people start believing that, it’ll come true.

She closes her eyes.

Derek’s face swims behind them. She doesn’t cry.

 


End file.
